


about time

by reginagalaxia



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Reunion, mild spoilers for the end i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25578838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reginagalaxia/pseuds/reginagalaxia
Summary: it's been years, but some things never change...well,mostthings.
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei
Comments: 18
Kudos: 146





	about time

**Author's Note:**

> GOD THIS IS LIKE PUTTING ON A FAVOURITE SWEATER WHEN YOU THOUGHT YOU LOST IT. it's been too long since i last wrote about my boys, but i saw them and then...this happened. i hope you enjoy!

Hanamaki isn’t nervous, he’s—he’s just a little sweaty, and—that’s—that’s fine and normal, people _sweat_ , okay? And the train’s on time, according to the schedule, but—god, is that what his hair looks like? He lifts his phone to surreptitiously adjust his bangs, which are, thankfully, less alarming than his reflection in the window had suggested. What he looks like doesn’t matter, _anyway_ , but he likes to look good. You know, he lives in Tokyo, he has a healthy respect for fashion and for brushing his hair. Bathing, too. He’s doing great. So what if he’s currently unemployed? He can look good. It has nothing to do with who he’s waiting for, and his crippling fear of somehow being disappointing and awkward when faced with that same person.

Hanamaki sighs bodily. He’s going to sweat through his shirt, at this rate. If there is one person on this Earth that wouldn’t care about how Hanamaki looked or what he did, it would be the Matsukawa of their high school years, but Hanamaki doesn’t know who he is anymore, not really. They lost touch after high school, conversations going from out-of-context jokes and nonsense to more stilted and formal promises to catch up, finally petering out to yearly messages for New Year’s and birthdays. 

Maybe Hanamaki is just as nervous about Matsukawa having become someone unfamiliar, grown into a different sphere that no longer overlaps with Hanamaki’s. He swallows thickly and checks the time on his watch, and then on his phone. It’s the same time, like it was the previous thirty-five times that he checked. Pinching the fabric of his t-shirt, Hanamaki pulls it out a few times to get some air on his sticky skin. He’s honest enough with himself to admit that he’s a fucking disaster.

Getting to the station early happens to be the biggest mistake that Hanamaki has ever made, and that includes the two infamous incidents where he walked into his hairdresser’s and said, “Yeah, I’m in the mood for something new.” 

His phone chimes, and he nearly drops it in his haste to check who it is. For a fleeting moment, Hanamaki wonders if this is what a heart attack feels like, but when he sees a text from an old coworker with some stupid link, he frowns and lets his poor, aching heart settle.

For the umpteenth time—Hanamaki hopes the station workers at the ticketing booth haven’t been observing his crisis from a distance—Hanamaki checks his hair, adjusting a few pieces to make it look like he hasn’t been anxiety-sweating for the past two...weeks.

“Your hair looks great, man, give it a rest,” comes a familiar voice, deep, even, and tinged with more than a little amusement. 

Hanamaki drops his phone. There are two courses of action here: turning around to look Matsukawa in the face, and picking up the overly expensive phone that he’s sent skittering across the pavement with an involuntary twitch of his leg.

“Hey,” he breathes, turning to face—jesus _fucking_ Christ—has Matsukawa spent the better part of the last ten years becoming more attractive? What the _fuck_. Hanamaki was not prepared. Nobody warned him. He is only human, and right now, he is _dying_. Matsukawa still has that easy smile, the one that suggests a smirk isn’t too far behind, one eyebrow raised in a lazy curiosity as he observes what passes for Hanamaki these days. Speaking of, Hanamaki can’t tear his eyes away from Matsukawa’s slightly shorter but still windblown curls, save for when he realizes his black t-shirt is pretty tight across his chest and biceps and—someone needs to call an ambulance because this is how Hanamaki Takahiro dies.

“You, uh—no, actually, I got it,” Matsukawa says, walking away, for some reason, which actually happens to be to grab Hanamaki’s phone and hold it out to him. “Been waiting long?”

“About ten years, yeah,” Hanamaki replies easily. Scratch that, call the ambulance now. Now. Matsukawa laughs, deep and rich and—it’s not awkward. He looks happy to see Hanamaki, ducking his head down bashfully, and the nervousness of earlier loosens in Hanamaki’s chest.

“Hey, that’s unfair. Some of that’s on you.”

There’s a twinge in Hanamaki’s gut because Matsukawa is right.

“Guilty.”

“We both are. Now, you gonna hug me or leave a man hanging?” 

With a relieved laugh, Hanamaki throws his arms around Matsukawa and they squeeze one another like they’re trying to make up for lost time. It’s a lingering hug, and while Hanamaki could easily spend a few more minutes in Matsukawa’s arms—okay, maybe more than that—he pulls back and grabs him by the biceps.

“How would you feel about air conditioning? I’m sweating like a pig out here,” he says, successfully avoiding blurting out any number of other embarrassing things, like “take me now” or “marry me a little”.

“Sounds great. I’m starving, too.”

“Let’s get some food in you, then. Maybe some booze, if you’re up for that?”

“Anything for you,” Matsukawa says, and that’s not fair either. He glances sidelong at Hanamaki, still playful, like he doesn’t know he’s committing _murder_ right now.

“Stop flirting, jackass. It’s too hot for this.” Hanamaki even manages to make that sound like a joke! He’s doing a lot better than he imagined he would be. 

“ _Never_. But, lead the way.”

Hanamaki doesn’t remember Matsukawa ever being like this with him, or maybe that’s a thought worth revisiting when he’s in his living room later, elbow-deep in a bag of chips. Not now, when he’s walking next to the dude.

Later. He’ll think later.

As it turns out, Hanamaki’s fears were unfounded. The years disappear in minutes, and they fall back into step with one another as though they had just walked off the court together yesterday. There’s a smile on Hanamaki’s face that just won’t quit, and everything is so _easy_ with Matsukawa. His sense of humour is still the same, he’s still as witty and laid-back, only he now carries himself with a confidence that makes him seem even taller. It’s a good look on him, Hanamaki has to admit, though he does manage to wrangle his hormones for the course of dinner so they can actually talk. 

After a drink or two, Hanamaki has found his groove, relaxing into his slouch at the table. He’s finding it increasingly difficult to rein in his flirting—not that he was ever successful at not flirting with Matsukawa—but he’s decided to let the alcohol be his excuse today. Matsukawa doesn’t seem fazed, like the attention is welcome, and there’s a playful glint to his half-lidded eyes as he holds his glass. He takes a long drink of his beer and Hanamaki’s eyes track the way his throat moves as he swallows. Before returning his attention to Matsukawa’s eyes, Hanamaki lets his gaze linger at the tantalizing reveal of collarbone courtesy of his well-worn collar. Nice.

The air is like honey around the two of them, Hanamaki notes absently, thick and golden, and he can swear that it’s that much harder to blink.

Matsukawa’s smile spreads across his face slowly— _fuck me_ , Hanamaki thinks—and he drains the last of his glass.

“You know,” Matsukawa begins, after a few dedicated hours of catching up, tracking the motion of his finger around the rim of his glass. “I was worried things would be weird between us.” He looks up, and Hanamaki catches a glimpse of uncertainty in his eyes. 

Hanamaki’s relieved laugh punches out of him. He’s loose, buzzed, but present enough to reply honestly, “Yeah, man, me too. I’m sorry I never tried harder.”

“Me too.”

“Oh, gonna guilt me now?” Hanamaki pouts, drawing patterns in the condensation on the table.

“No, I mean, I’m sorry, too,” Matsukawa corrects, then lifts his hand to flick Hanamaki on the forehead. “And you knew it, you tool.”

Hanamaki grins. “I cannot believe this. After all these years, you come into _my_ house, and—”

“Makki, you don’t own this izakaya—”

“ _My_ house, and disrespect—”

“You are so _dramatic_ —"

“ _Disrespect_ ,” Hanamaki forestalls the rest of Matsukawa’s totally _wrong_ statement by pressing his palm into his face. “Ew, did you just lick my hand?”

“Worth the disease.”

Any witty response that Hanamaki was planning to dish out evaporates when Matsukawa grabs his hand to move it, then just doesn’t let go. Hanamaki watches their joined hands come to rest on the table, and feels bereft when Matsukawa extricates his own carefully after a moment. 

Where’s the ambulance that Hanamaki ordered a few hours ago? Is it coming? The paramedics have left him to die—he’s just going to have to save his own damn self.

“So, now that we’ve established that you’re at fault here,” he says, fighting the urge to stretch his fingers across the tantalizingly short distance between their hands.”

“Did we establish that?”

“We did. I remember us doing that, yeah.”

“Hmm.” Matsukawa rubs his chin as though in thought, but Hanamaki notes he inches his other hand forward on the table. “I don’t think we really reached a satisfying conclusion. Or any conclusion, really.”

“Someone’s had a bit too much to drink, because we clearly, _clearly_ —”

“Nope.”

Hanamaki, without really thinking, emphatically smacks his hand on top of Matsukawa’s, and then screams on the inside.

“You’re adorable, but wrong.” Hanamaki starts sweating, now very aware of Matsukawa’s eyes on him and the warmth of their hands.

“Alright, I think we should settle up here so you can walk off that amnesia there, buddy.” Matsukawa grins. 

Unfortunately, in order to leave, Hanamaki has to move his hand, and that’s probably the worst thing to happen in his life, although it might help him get to even more positive things like—

“You ready to go?” Matsukawa asks, eyebrow arched gently in question. He lifts their hands and removes his, nudging Hanamaki in the side as though that is meant to serve as a placeholder.

Hanamaki’ll take it. 

It’s a hot night, but without the sun, walking is bearable. They leave with no set destination in mind—well, Hanamaki doesn’t, though maybe Matsukawa is leading him off somewhere specific that he hasn’t shared—either way, it’s nice. 

Their shoulders bump as they walk, chatting easily as they go, and Hanamaki steals glances of Matsukawa’s profile wherever he can. He’s far from stealthy, he hasn’t been all night, but judging by the number of times he catches Matsukawa doing the same, they’re in the same boat. Whatever tension existed between them years before hasn’t faded one bit, despite Hanamaki’s best efforts. It flows between them, a low thrum of electricity, seconds from a spark, it feels like. 

Their knuckles graze and it’s like a live wire, a shot of adrenaline straight into Hanamaki’s veins. He suppresses a shiver at the thought of those knuckles smoothing over his cheekbones, his neck, trailing lower—

He shakes his head to clear the image, as delightful as it is, and asks, “So, where are you staying?”

“Oh,” Matsukawa says, laughing. “About that. I was gonna find something once I arrived.”

“Wow, great planning. Classic you.”

Matsukawa shrugs, backpack shifting. “I figured I’d be fine.” He’s always believed that things would work out, no matter the situation, and Hanamaki continues to be jealous of this attitude. He’d be a lot less stressed out about being unemployed if he thought like Matsukawa.

“You realize that it’s the Olympics, right? Like, there are a lot of tourists here, occupying temporary spaces like hotels and—”

“Well. See, I know people in Tokyo and you know, I’m charming,” Matsukawa says, tipping his head in Hanamaki’s direction with a brilliant grin.

“Oh, do you? Hmm. Didn’t know you had any friends.”

“With a face like this? Of course I do!”

Hanamaki laughs brightly, shoving Matsukawa towards a bush. Handsome bastard.

“That might get them in the door, but your personality...yikes. How _do_ you keep them?”

“You tell me, Makki,” Matsukawa fucking _purrs_ , and there is no way to misinterpret that intent, holy shit. 

“You’re funny, I guess,” Hanamaki replies, voice as dry as he can make it, but the look accompanying it is anything but. Two can play at this game.

Okay, so, Hanamaki wants Matsukawa in his pants—he’s only human—but he kinda also wants to be best friends again. He also wants to just date, and move in together, and get marr—he’s getting ahead of himself. 

What it comes down to is that he could deal with just having Matsukawa for a night, but he’d rather it be the start of something else than just an end to this horny purgatory. What he doesn’t know is how to make this happen. 

Hanamaki’s world has narrowed down to Matsukawa as they continue to wander, not paying attention to any of the scenery save to remark that they’re heading vaguely in the direction of his apartment. It must be his mental autopilot that’s taking his feet this way, because Hanamaki isn’t making any conscious decisions on direction. He has priorities. The kind of priorities that have long fingers and knobbly knuckles, and are currently gesturing, mid-story. Tuning back in, Hanamaki smiles at the tale, interjecting with the expected quips to keep it rolling. 

It warms him to his toes to know that they can fall into this comfortable routine as easily as they did when they spent all their days together, that their edges still _fit_ despite all of life’s many changes. Hanamaki smiles, softly and honestly, and pinches Matsukawa’s side to punish him for making Hanamaki have a Feeling. Lots of them, actually. Completely unacceptable.

Matsukawa yelps, swatting at Hanamaki’s hand once he’s laughing.

“You’re insane,” he tells Hanamaki, diving in to dig a knuckle into his ribs. 

They jostle each other on the way back to Hanamaki’s apartment, stopping only to escalate it with a dead sprint towards his building when it comes into view.

It doesn’t end there, no; at the base of the stairs, they exchange a look, panting from exertion, then take off, skipping stairs as they go. Hanamaki isn’t in terrible shape, but he’s definitely not fit enough to be able to maintain this tempo. He has to win, though, since he’s not about to admit that he’s been quietly praying for death since the first floor. Matsukawa’s horrible, extremely sexy legs get him to the landing first—not by much, let it be known—and he throws his arms up in victory before bending double and wheezing like a septuagenarian track star.

Hanamaki points, meaning to laugh, but it comes out as an aborted stutter of a sound, which only makes Matsukawa’s pain-wheezing turn into laugh-wheezing. It’s terrible how charmed Hanamaki is, how he can’t stop grinning even though he’s afraid one of his lungs might fall out of his mouth. A worthwhile sacrifice.

“So, I won,” Matsukawa says, once their breathing starts to approach something resembling normal. Hands on his hips, Hanamaki sighs dramatically.

“I guess I’ll let you stay, then.”

“Oh, how kind of you.”

“Shut up, you ingrate.” Hanamaki hip-checks the gangly bastard out of the way and fishes around in his pocket for his keys. He’s only now starting to be aware of how sweaty he is from their run, and the heat of Matsukawa’s body oh-so-close to his isn’t helping. Hanamaki’s heart rate quickens again, betraying him, and he fumbles for the right key. If he’s not mistaken, Matsukawa is closing what little space remains between them, and it feels like Hanamaki is about to be enveloped. It’s only serving to stoke the fire between them, and he lingers there, keys in the lock, letting himself burn. 

Hanamaki is the first one to admit that he has no self-preservation instinct, but he unlocks the door and walks in.

The moment breaks, and the blessed cool of his small place rushes over his skin, soothing him. He feels around on the wall for the light switch, cursing when he can’t find the damn thing, even though he’s been living here for years.

Abandoning that task with a grumble, he toes off his shoes, hearing more than seeing Matsukawa do the same. Hanamaki turns around to apologize for being a mess, but shuts his mouth. There’s a scant bit of light streaming in through the window on the far side of his apartment, just enough to catch on Matsukawa’s sharp features, caressing the bow of his mouth. Hanamaki digs his teeth into his bottom lip so as not to make the pathetically horny sound he wants to.

They’ve left the noise of the city outside, along with their words, it seems; all that remains is a soft rustle of clothing, and their combined breathing. This moment is the precipice, something big and as of yet unnamed sprawling before them—all they have to do is take that step forward—

Hanamaki’s breath hitches when he feels Matsukawa’s hands loop around his wrists, thumbs stroking over the soft skin much too tenderly. He slides up further, his touch gentle, and the touch brings Hanamaki closer to him. Without thinking too much, Hanamaki brings his hands to Matsukawa’s hips, feeling the heat beneath his palms, the stickiness of the humidity clinging to him even inside. Their height difference is small, but enough that Hanamaki has to tip his chin up to meet Matsukawa’s eyes when they’re this close. 

His heart is hammering against his ribcage, and it wouldn’t be surprising if Matsukawa could hear it. Hanamaki licks his lips, steps in so their chests are touching.

“Hmm?” Matsukawa says, maybe meaning to be sassy, maybe just too distracted to form words, and Hanamaki mumbles, “Yeah,” before pressing their lips together.

It’s just a chaste, soft kiss at first, yet completely mind-blowing. It’s been a decade—more than—in the making, this tiny, breathless moment, and it’s all Hanamaki can do to hold onto his sanity. Matsukawa’s hands slide off his biceps, one to his back and the other up into Hanamaki’s hair, holding him like he was planning on going somewhere. Hah. Like Hanamaki hasn’t decided that he’s just going to live in this night forever. Matsukawa deepens the kiss, and Hanamaki parts his lips, ready and willing and _fuck yes_.

“Fuck,” Matsukawa breathes, parting to take a deep breath, softly knocking his forehead against Hanamaki’s and leaving it there. 

“Yeah,” Hanamaki agrees. He bunches the fabric beneath his hands and yanks Matsukawa impossibly closer. They groan, loud in the silent apartment.

“Good?”

“I can’t believe we wasted so much time not sucking face, man.”

“I know, right?”

“Keep going?” Hanamaki asks with an embarrassing amount of hope and barely-restrained enthusiasm.

“Oh, hell yes.” 

With a playful growl, Matsukawa dips in to capture Hanamaki’s lips again. They stumble back into the apartment, still not giving a fuck about the lack of illumination, opting to skip that to test the structural integrity of the floor instead. 

For science, and all.

And if they’re a little late to meet the rest of their old classmates for Oikawa’s match the next day, it’s nobody’s business but their own.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
